“Of course I’m talking about Carvell,” Farnsworth snapped. “The man had the motive, the means and the opportunity. You’ve got the ideal leverage to pressure him into a confession. Use it!”
“I don’t have anything—” Pitt began, but Farnsworth interrupted him impatiently.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” He slashed his hand through the air. “Tellman’s right, you’re too squeamish. This is not the time or the place to indulge your personal conscience, Pitt.” He leaned forward across the corner of the desk, resting his hands on it, staring at Pitt eye to eye. “You have obligations, duties to your superiors and to the force. You’ve got to be above such things. They’re for juniors, if you like, not for the men in charge. Face your responsibilities, Pitt—or resign!”
“I cannot arrest Carvell,” Pitt said very quietly. “And I refuse to persecute the man over what I believe his private life to be.”
“Dammit, Pitt!” Farnsworth smashed his fist down on the desk. “The man was having an illicit love affair with the victim of a murder. He can’t account for where he was either then or when Winthrop was killed. Arledge may have known Winthrop—”
“How do you know that?” Pitt interrupted.
Farnsworth looked at him incredulously. “He knew Mrs. Winthrop. It’s not a large leap from that to suppose he knew Winthrop himself. And if Carvell was a jealous man, then the conclusion is obvious.”
“Tellman told you?”
“Of course Tellman told me! What’s the matter with you? What are you hesitating for?”
“It could as easily have been Bartholomew Mitchell.” Now Farnsworth was confused.
“Mitchell? Winthrop’s brother-in-law? Why, for Heaven’s sake? What had he to do with Arledge?”
“Winthrop beat his wife,” Pitt replied. “Mitchell knew it. Arledge was seen with Mrs. Winthrop when she was extremely distressed over something.”
“And the omnibus conductor?” Farnsworth pursued, ignoring the issue of Winthrop and the beating. “What about him? Don’t tell me he had anything to do with this domestic melodrama?”
“No idea. But then we have no idea what he has to do with Carvell either,” Pitt argued.
Farnsworth bit his lip. “Blackmail,” he said acidly. “It’s the only answer. Somehow or other he was in the park and saw one of the murders. I still think it’s Carvell. Go after him, Pitt. Press him into telling you the truth. You’ll get a confession, if he’s guilty.”
There was a knock on the door before Pitt could reply, and without waiting for an answer, it opened and Tellman came in.
“Oh,” he said with some surprise, as if he had not known Farnsworth was there. “Excuse me, sir.” He looked at Pitt. “I thought you’d like to know, Mr. Pitt. The men have been following up Mr. Carvell’s whereabouts at the times of the murders.”
“Yes?” Pitt said sharply, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Farnsworth stared at Tellman, his eyes wide.
“Haven’t found anyone to substantiate it,” Tellman replied. “Not for Captain Winthrop or Mr. Arledge. I don’t know what else we can try.”
“That’s sufficient,” Farnsworth said decisively. “Arrest him for the murder of Arledge. The other two don’t matter for the charge. Once you’ve got him in custody, he’ll break.”
Pitt drew breath to argue, but Tellman cut across him.
“We don’t know about Yeats yet, sir,” he said quickly, looking at Farnsworth. “He might have been somewhere he can prove when that happened.”
“Well what does he say?” Farnsworth demanded irritably.
“That he was at a concert, and we’re still looking into it,” Tellman replied, his eyes very wide open, his expression innocent. “We’d look stupid if we arrested him, then found someone who said that they’d seen him at the theater half a dozen miles away at, say, midnight.”
“What time was Yeats killed?”
“Probably between midnight and half past,” Pitt replied.
“Probably?” Farnsworth said sharply. “How accurate can the medical examiner be? Maybe it was later. Maybe it was a couple of hours later. That would give Carvell plenty of time to have taken a hansom to Shepherd’s Bush.” He looked from Tellman to Pitt, his face triumphant.
Tellman looked at him very deliberately.
“Wouldn’t matter, sir. Yeats would hardly have been hanging around the Shepherd’s Bush bus terminal a couple of hours after he came in. He’d set off home, the driver said that. And since it’s only fifteen minutes or so at a good walk, that narrows down the time of his death rather fine.”
Farnsworth’s lips tightened. “Then you’d better get on with finding out who else was at that concert,” he said. “If the man was there, someone must have seen him! He’s a well-known figure. He didn’t sit in a room alone. For God’s sake, man, you’re a detective. There must be a way of proving if he was there or not. What about the interval? Did he take refreshment? He must have spoken to someone. Concerts are social occasions as well as musical.”
“He says he didn’t,” Tellman answered. “It was shortly after Arledge’s death, and he wasn’t feeling like speaking to anyone. He simply went for the music, because it carried memories for him. He went in without speaking to anyone, and came out the same way.”
“Then arrest him,” Farnsworth repeated. “He’s our man.”
“What if it turns out to be Mr. Mitchell, sir?” Tellman said ingenuously. “Seems he could have had cause as well, and he can’t prove where he was either, except for Mrs. Winthrop’s word, and that doesn’t count for
